


Itty-bitty Tidbits

by Shamise



Series: Tidbits [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Outpost AU, Snippets, Wildling AU, barbarian au, don't mind me as i compulsivly rewrite everything, help i can't hold all these AUs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamise/pseuds/Shamise
Summary: I have a terrible, aweful habit of writing a thing, the slicing it into splinters and rewriting. This'll be home for all the little pieces of fics and ficlets that don't yet have a full thought. Be prepared for re-occuring themes or AUs, with primarily Jazz & Prowl as main characters.Warnings for specific chapters will be in the notes, along with summaries and characters. <3





	1. Lucky (01)

**Author's Note:**

> How many of these wildlings does he have to run off into the ditch before they let him go?!
> 
> AN: I _really_ like the chase.
> 
> Jazz, Prowl, unnamed side-characters. Barbarian AU. No warnings.

Prowl did not believe in luck.

 

He expected, with ninety-eight percent certainty, that his energon would freeze in his veins before the night was over. The wilds were incredibly dangerous, and mecha built in the cities rarely survived more than an orn without careful planning and provisions. He had no gear, no supplies to help him last the night (save for a dull switchblade Twistfoot left him out of  _ courtesy _ ), and limited data on how to survive the freezing night.

 

Prowl did not make a habit of betting on low odds, so when he wedged himself into the rocky cliff for some shelter from the sharp winds and rapidly dropping temperature, he fully expected to not wake up the next orn. It was not  _ luck  _ that he onlined the next morning distinctly not-dead. It was just that he did not account for the presence of wildlings in the Primus-damned  _ wilds _ .

 

He was moving before conscious-processing had fully booted up. The two wildlings trying to pry him out of his crevice fell back with his mighty (and slightly panicked) shove. Fritzing sensors accounted for several more nearby.  _ Wildlings _ . Prowl knew  _ nothing  _ about wildlings. Rumor had it that they stole mechs from caravans or cannibalized mechs left behind. He was  _ not _ going to leave it up to chance. Betrayed and cast out he might be, but he wasn’t going to just let someone else at his parts. He was in altmode and fleeing before any of them caught up with the realization that he  _ was not a corpse _ .

 

Prowl spun out twice before he could gain suitable traction. A blue wildling, smaller than he but twice as fast, made an opportunistic swerve into his path. Years of honed responses flipped him into root mode, grasping low on the wildling’s bumper and  _ lifting _ . Momentum carried him over, and Prowl chucked him into the path of a stunned, red wildling. Transformation back into his faster altmode was instinctive and he floored it.

 

Surprised shouts turned into eager howls behind him, and his sensors pointed out several pursuing him. They had no fliers - thank Primus, but their alts were clearly designed to handle the terrain way better than his was. 

 

One severely underestimated how heavy and reinforced Prowl’s frame was to impact damage. The brown and white wildling had the gall to try and push Prowl into a ditch! Prowl cut his wheels sharply, and drove him  _ and _ the wildling trailing too closely into that same ditch. They both went down with squawks of startled pain.

 

He ran one more into a pile of prickly crystals, and nearly drove a second wildling to the same fate, before the lot of them figured out taking him on one-on-one wasn’t going to work. It took every bit of Prowl’s processing power to keep track of them all once they started hazing him. 

 

_ They are trying to box me in _ , he realized soon after. Two wildlings, stockier than the three Prowl had run off but not as fast, pulled up on both sides of him. He braked, but the nipping field at his rear tire warned him that a third wildling had taken up a post there. They kept pace with him, squeezing in the middle to cut out his manerverality and bring him back into the throng of wildlings.  Every second that passed was another second closer to being completely cut off, and Prowl did not need to run calculations to know that was a  _ bad idea _ .

 

A thought, reckless and desperate and the only possible way he had a chance of getting out of this, burst to the forefront of his processor. They were too close. Not just to him, but to the pack of wildlings speeding alongside them, too. His processor churned out a reckless,  _ stupid _ idea, and Prowl had to be overheating because he  _ went for it _ .

 

He braked hard, smashing into the wildling behind him with enough force to crack their grill, and cut sharply to the left. Prowl’s fender crumpled on impact, but the red wildling he targeted spun out. He felt a hand on his bumper for a moment, catching him just long enough to avoid a collision with a green wildling that had lost control of his turn, and then it was gone again as he rammed the wildling on his right. He took the first opening he saw, and swerved out of the chain reaction he had started, skidding neatly to the side as the chain reaction took out all of his wildling pursuers.

 

All but one.

 

His satisfaction died a sparkbeat later. A smaller, black and white wildling  _ flipped over the mass of crashing wildlings _ and landed neatly outside of the crash-zone. His field reached out to Prowl in the following pause, catching onto Prowl’s sinking satisfaction-disbelief-astonishment with his own exhilaration-desire-determination. He grinned cheekily, waggled his hips and launched into altmode to charge him.

 

The chase began anew, except this wildling was  _ smart _ . He couldn’t be tempted into crystal patches or tricked into ditches, and he stayed a healthy distance away from where Prowl could ram him. He’d learned from his wildling pack’s attempts, and Prowl struggled to gain any sort of lead.

 

His frame was burning, practically churned smoke out of his vents the farther they drove. The pace the wildling set behind him redlined his endurance, creating heat sinks that bogged down his thought processes and killed his reaction time. Prowl was  _ not _ built for this, and the terrain was unforgiving to inattention. 

 

He tried  _ everything _ to shake his tail. The black and white wildling skirted just out of sensor range, going silent just to appear again any time Prowl took a moment to gain his bearings or expel the heat boiling beneath his frame. He would come out of nowhere to tag his rear bumper, field playfully skirting outside Prowl’s own withdrawn field, only to pull away with bubbled laugher when Prowl pushed back in anger.

 

Frustrated and exhausted, he turned down reckless option after reckless option as his processor kept spitting them out. (No, trying to jump over a ravine would not lose this mech. No, swearing like a construction mech would not deter him. And  _ yes _ , taking a stand and trying to fight a wildling that wasn’t slowing down was still a bad idea.) The wildling had taken to drifting, blatantly taunting him with showy tricks that threw him for a loop trying to figure out  _ what the pit he was doing _ .

 

The blowout of his tire caught him off-guard, and sent him careening head over bumper into an automatic transformation. He crashed hard into the ground, unable to process fast enough at this point to stay on his feet. He had barely stopped moving when he heard the echo of another transformation, and the whisper quiet of the wildling’s rush to his side.

 

“No!” Prowl yelled, swinging wildly to the side. He was off-balance, and for all the wildling’s showboating, he had taken advantage of Prowl’s crash with the speed of someone paying close attention. Any moment now he would feel the sharp thrust of a knife, or spear, or  _ whatever _ weapon the wildling carried on his person. He was  _ not _ going to die this way!

 

The wildling danced around his swings. In contrast to Prowl,  _ he _ was thoroughly enjoying this. Determination and  _ joy _ flared in that EM field, and it took all of Prowl’s training to keep his increasingly desperate field tight to his armor. Prowl landed a sharp hit to the wildling’s shoulder joint - he  _ saw _ that arm seize up - and thought for a moment that he could slip away.

 

Then he was on the ground. The wildling upon his back, fingers curled into his collar and driving him down with all his weight. Prowl scrambled, spitting curses and smacking him with his door wings, doing everything in his power to get up-up-up-u-

 

The wildling rode out Prowl’s fight, refusing to be knocked off no matter how Prowl wiggled, struggled, and swore. Distressingly, Prowl’s frame grew more and more unresponsive. His vents opened wide, choking with dirt and sand as they tried to divert heat off of his protoform. Severe-heat warning screamed at him, and soon it was all Prowl could do to lay still as his systems locked up. 

 

Clarity caught up with him some time later with the static of a heat-induced reboot cluttering his thoughts. He was propped up in the shadow of a rock, legs stretched out and hands tied securely in front of him. What….?

 

“ _ Ey, ey _ ,” the wildling called out to him, field soothing along Prowl’s edges. Cooling metal ticked throughout both their frames, but Prowl’s alone trembled with the effects of overheating. The wildling encouraged him into a position better for cooling down, casually tutting in approval as Prowl’s systems loosened up. 

 

What was he  _ doing _ ? Prowl stared wide-eyed and incredulous at the black and white wildling diligently working. A claw-tipped hand, gentle and confident, proceeded to seek out and clear his clogged vents. He was murmuring nonsense, sneaking glances at Prowl from the corner of his visor. Reassurance colored his field, backed by triumph and joy and a smattering of other emotions Prowl could not pull apart with his processor still running hot. 

 

Prowl jerked his field back tightly to his frame. “What do you  _ want? _ ” (How long had he been broadcasting?) His fans hitched when those claws brushed the sensitive inner workings of his vents. “Stop that!” Prowl shook his frame and snarled through his engine when the wildling gave him a sly smile. “Stop - just tell me what you want!” 

 

Why go through all this effort if he just wanted parts? Prowl knew next to nothing about wildlings and their customs.  What motive could possibly drive this wildling to chase him so far, then be so - whatever this was - after catching him? 

 

It remained to be seen if the wildling understood Standard Cybertronian, but he  _ had _ picked up on Prowl’s confusion. Carefully, deliberately, the wildling traced a glyph onto Prowl’s chest, and then mimed the same one on his own chest. His field insistently cycled through reassurance-triumph-joy again.

 

...What in the pit did that  _ mean _ ?!

  
  



	2. Lucky (02)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city-mech was definitly not-dead, and somehow managed to out maneuver an entire hunting party. Color Jazz impressed.
> 
> AN: Continuation of the first chapter. Jazz is just here to have a good time
> 
> Jazz, Prowl, Hound makes an appearance, side characters. Barbarian AU. No warnings.

* * *

 

The first time he saw the city-mech, Jazz thought he was dead. It had only been by sheer luck that Jazz spotted him wedged under that rocky outcropping, so very silent and covered in dust and hoarfrost. The heat had likely driven him there to start with, and Jazz would not be surprised if sudden snap of freezing temperatures night brought had caught the mech unaware. He didn’t look like he suffered, at least. 

 

“Probably got left behind, the poor thing.” Hound, his scouting partner for the vorn, said as they dug him out. The rest of their hunting party fanned out, checking for signs of other city-mechs or oddies that may have been forgotten. Caravans did not pass through this territory often, and for good reason. The nooks and jagged shelves made for poor driving and there was hardly enough shade for a pair of mechs, let alone a whole contingent. “Wish we could’a got here before he froze.”

 

Jazz hummed his agreement. The city-mech looked study and well built. He would have made a fine mate if they could have caught him. It wouldn’t be the first time a city-mech had been left out here. If luck was on their side, they got to them  _ before _ the wilds did. If luck wasn’t...well then there was no sense in letting the frame go to waste. It would be cruel of them to just  _ leave _ the it there for mechamals to savage. It’d get the proper afterspark rites, at least. 

 

“He’s jammed in here really good,” Jazz worked his staff into a thin gap between the mech’s back and the rocks. “‘Got some kind of panels attached to his back.” Wings maybe? “Think he was a flier?” 

 

Imagine Jazz’s surprise when the corpse sprang to life with engines roaring, knocked Hound out cold and laid Jazz flat on his aft. The suddenly not-dead city-mech took one bewildered and panicked look at their cloaked frames, jumped into a painful sounding transformation and sped off.

 

Hound rebooted quickly, grimacing at what could only be a sharp processor-ache. “What hit me?”

 

“Our corpse,” Jazz jerked a thumb over his shoulder, excitement and anticipation flooding his field. “Looks like we get that chase after all.”

 

Hound  _ laughed _ , good-natured and impressed. “Well, I’ll be! The guys back at camp are going to be slagged they missed this!”

 

Surprised shouts called out from where the city-mech barreled through their hunting party. Jazz howled his intent and launched after him. He wasn’t the only one, either. The simple fact that he was still  _ alive _ and in good enough repair to run made him desirable. The hunting party echoed his howl, each mech joining in the contest of winning the right of courtship with this city-mech. 

 

Blur, always overeager, had already made a pass at him. And ooh Primus, did that city-mech just trash him or what! Blur would be feeling that for orns! Jazz’s engine revved in determination, and he wove through the mass of competing mechs. The city-mech kept knocking mechs into prickle-clusters and ditches, and, oh,  _ look  _ at that perfectly executed pile-up!

 

He snagged the city-mechs bumper for a fraction of a moment, pulling him just far enough that Hound did not crash into him, spun through the chaos of crashing metal, and landed neatly in front of the city-mech. He savored the pride-awe-disbelief in the other’s elusive field. He’d outlasted everyone else and proved himself worthy, now Jazz just had to  _ catch _ him.

 

And Jazz had a feeling that luck was on his side.


	3. Outpost (01)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prowl runs an outpost, and is given a gift.
> 
> AN: So this is a little idea that's been rolling around for a bit, and I wanted to try and keep it short but sweet. (I tend to have a problem with wanting to shove all the ideas into first pass, when less really is more.) Expect to see more little bits from this verse.
> 
> Jazz and Prowl. Outpost AU. No warnings.

* * *

 

Prowl stared at the bundle like it was going to come alive and strangle him. Polyhexian steel-mesh cloaks were a highly coveted item among the . They took considerable time and effort to make, and Prowl had never seen a non-Polyhexian obtain one legally. (And the ones Praxian nobles put on display were almost always forgeries.) Polys did not part with them easily.

 

“I don’t….” he stopped and cleared his vocalizer. He had to have heard Jazz wrong. “I don’t understand?”

 

The cloak Jazz held out to him was a beautiful dark gray, almost black, with silver shapes and symbols woven in. Prowl did not claim to have an optic for such things, but he thought it contrasted nicely with Jazz’s silver and blue one. The holographic shimmer to the red embroidery matched. Prowl kept his hands stiffly by his side.

 

“S’not a trade.” Jazz patiently repeated. “It’s a gift.”

 

With effort, Prowl pulled his optics away from the cloak. “You and yours have been more than generous in negotiations. I am not looking for...additional compensation.”

 

Jazz shook his head with a sort of indulgent smile, and Prowl’s spark flipped in his chest. “Nah, my ‘van is perfectly content with the extent of your hospitality.” That released a knot of tension in Prowl’s frame he didn’t realize was there, only for it to twist back up when _Jazz_ suddenly looked nervous. “This’s from me. Specifically.”

 

“Oh,” Prowl stared at Jazz for several moments before it clicked. _“Oh.”_

 

Jazz sheepishly rocked back and forth. “Yea.”

 

Prowl stared at the cloak like it was going to strangle _and_ fry him now.  Bribes were one thing, tokens from caravan leaders or elders were another, but _personal gifts?_ What was he supposed to _do?_

 

Jazz did not waver. Nervous yes, but also determined to see whatever this was through. Irrationally, Prowl thought back to every time he asked after Prowl’s health, how he sought Prowl out on cold nights to keep him company and invited him to his caravan’s campfires. Maybe he had no idea what he was doing, but _Jazz_ did.

 

Slowly, cautiously, Prowl took the cloak from Jazz. Nothing melted or combusted, no one popped out of the bushes and exposed this for a joke. His words were formal, but his spark felt like soaring through the sky. “I am honored to receive your gift.”

 

Jazz’s smile was like the sun.


End file.
